


O'r tu Allan

by JustGettingBy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Everybody Lives, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Revealed, POV Outsider, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: The five times people of Camelot suspected there was more to Merlin and Arthur's relationship than met the eye + the one time they knew for sure
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 261





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> O'r tu allan is Welsh for "from the outside". Original, I know. 
> 
> But I'm excited to be writing my first merthur fic! I've been reading it since like 2012 so it was high time lol. I had a lot of fun writing 5 + 1 things for Avatar so I thought I'd give it a shot here as well. PLUS we need to know what camelot thought about Merlin and Arthur.

i.

Elias has known Prince Arthur from the time they were young. In his mind, he pictures a clear and distinct memory of the Prince from when they were no more than eight summers old, smashing wooden practice swords together on the training grounds after the knights had cleared out. Elias remembers the encounter mostly on account of Prince Arthur’s moves—when Elias landed a well-aimed thrust, Prince Arthur kicked him in the shin. The splintering pain shot up Elias’ leg and he hit the ground, grasping at the sore lump. 

Elias remembers blinking rapidly and choking back a sob. 

“I win,” said Prince Arthur. 

Elias stared up at him, the prince’s head stark and clear against the blue of the sky. He winced and stood and brushed the dirt off his breeches and picked up the wooden sword for another round. Elias knew better than to argue with a prince.

He still does. 

Over the years, he’s shot up from the petit boy he once was—his mother often fretted that Elias was too small despite the shocking amount of food he inhaled. She worried he’d become sickly, that a slight cold would leave him bedridden for months. 

But her fears quickly vanished in Elias’ teenage years. Not only did he shoot up, but his frame filled out too, in no small part due to Prince Arthur always dragging him along to every practice and training exercise. 

In all honesty, Elias didn’t want to be a knight. Running around with Arthur and the others was all good fun throughout their childhoods and teenage years, but as of late, Elias had begun to grow tired of it all. As much as he once scoffed at his father with his expense reports and council meetings, as of late he’d found himself interested in them more often than not. Why _did_ the grain stocks come up short again? Why did Lord Malish need another wing built on his estate when yet another drought affected the crops in his fiefdom? Elias had some ideas on how he’d like to change things. 

And it was a little hard to do that with Prince Arthur dragging him off to the field to spar. And it’s not like Elias can say no to the prince. 

Even if he is… well, even if he is the way that he is. 

In truth, Elias was secretly happy when that boy confronted the Prince. It was dumb, without a doubt, but it needed to be said. But seeing Prince Arthur get humiliated by a peasant? Elias tucked that into his memory, right next to the one of Prince Arthur kicking him in the shin. 

Now, though, nearly a fortnight after the incident, Elias began to regret enjoying the memory. 

Mostly because Prince Arthur will not _shut up_ about it. 

“I can’t believe my father made him my _servant,”_ Prince Arthur whines while he nocked his arrow. “I can’t get away from him. Everywhere I turn it’s just Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.”

“Hmm.” 

“He’s a terrible servant too. Not that any of them have been that good.” Prince Arthur lets the arrow fly. It lands an inch away from the centre of the target. 

Elias hands him another. “What if you spoke to your father? Or the steward? I’m sure they’d shuffle him off to some other position. He’d be well compensated, but you wouldn’t have to see him every day.”

“And have you seen the clothing he wears?” Prince Arthur shakes his head. “He’s always got that little—” he lowers his arrow and gestures to his throat— “thing around his neck. Have you ever seen anyone wear anything like that?”

“I have not, Your Highness.”

“He should learn this is Camelot, not some village halfway to nowhere. Just who does he think he is?”

When Prince Arthur finally fires the arrow, it arcs through the air and misses the target completely; the arrowhead buries itself into the grass two feet to the left. 

Elias wishes he could say that was the end of it all. 

But every time he sees the prince, he seems to have a new complaint about his servant. 

“He ate my dinner! Right off my plate, at that. Just nicked a bread roll on the way out for the night,” the prince says as they spar. 

The next week, at a feast, his opinion hasn’t changed. 

“He was supposed to get me ready! I needed my best clothes for tonight and he tried to dress me in a threadbare old tunic.”

Elias sips his wine and nods in sympathy. “You know, I heard that since Lord Edwin passed, his manservant has been looking for a new posting. He’s been working that job long enough that he wouldn’t make the same _faux-pas._ ”

“And,” Prince Arthur continued, “he suggested I was eating too much! The nerve on that boy is unbelievable. So, of course, I told him right back that I’d rather have a little muscle. I swear every time he moves I can see his bones poking out. He’s more limbs than not.”

And so Prince Arthur goes on, despite the fact that the bard is playing and that beer and ale and wine are flowing. He goes on and on about Merlin. Merlin this and Merlin that. 

Finally— _finally_ —Lady Morgana comes over and Elias pulls himself away from the conversation while the prince invites the lady for a dance. 

Elias pushes his hair back from his damp forehead. The halls of Camelot are often busy, and with the feast tonight it’s certainly no exception. Strums of the lute and pipes echo through the hall and rise above the murmur of voices. Between the crackling fire, the people packed into the hall, and the layers of clothing he’s wearing, Elias feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back. 

He winds his way through the crowd, the scents of the roasted beef and heavy perfumes and candle smoke and incense all mixing and plugging up his nose. 

Finally, he finds a place next to the barrel of wine and refills his chalice. He takes a swig and lets the warm taste flood over his tongue. 

Through the crowd, through the rich purple gowns and high-cut burgundy collars, through the swirls of dancers and through the laughing knights, Elias spots Prince Arthur still dancing with Lady Morgana. Lady Morgana looks stunning as always with her dark curls and ink blue gown. 

But Prince Arthur isn’t looking at her. No—his gaze goes straight past the side of her head, toward the far wall of the banquet hall where the servants are gathered. 

Toward Merlin. 

Elias tilts up his glass and finishes the wine. Heaven help them all. 

* * *

ii.

King Uther may run the kingdom, but Balcwin runs the castle. This is how things work; no one questions the order. From the time he was young, Balcwin worked at the castle in one way or another—first as a stable hand, then as a porter, then as a manservant to a very important Lord. He’d done his time. He climbed the ranks. 

And now he is steward—nothing happens in the castle without him knowing. He knows all the names of the staff. He knows the happenings of everywhere from the stables to the kitchens to the bed chambers. It is, in short, his business to know. 

Given that, it doesn’t take long for the news of Prince Arthur’s dissatisfaction with his servant to reach his ears. 

It’s not surprising. The prince has complained about every servant that Balcwin has ever sent his way. And the servants have complained right back (discretely, of course). 

And now the prince didn’t even have a proper manservant—this Merlin may have saved his life, but he was hardly trained in the ways of etiquette and decorum. 

But as much as Balcwin’s heard about their mutual dissatisfaction, neither of them have come to _him_ to voice their dissatisfaction. It’s been nearly a year now. 

One day, Balcwin deliberately times his walk around the ground to match up with when the knights are finishing practice. He runs into Prince Arthur while he’s ending the training. 

“Your Highness.” Balcwin bows. It’s a cool day in spring, and his light cloak might not have been the best choice for walking around the grounds. The snow is gone, that much is true, but the air is still bitter especially in the shade.

“Balcwin, good to see you.” He nods slightly in Balcwin’s direction by way of greeting. 

Balcwin hovers for a moment. If the prince wants to discuss anything with him, this is his chance. 

“Have a good day,” Prince Arthur says and walks straight past him, back toward the castle. 

And, the next day, he hears a rumour of how the prince threatened to send Merlin to the stocks. Again. 

Balcwin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. _So this is how it's going to be._ He doesn't want to be caught in the middle of whatever game they're playing. The last thing he needs is to look like a bad steward who isn't attending to the Prince's needs. 

But no one comes to him with any complaint. 

* * *

iii.

Ada has always done what is needed of her. She prides herself on that fact. When her mother passed when she young, she took on caring for her younger sister, Hilda. Their father gave up bookbinding—the income wasn’t steady enough. Instead, he would go to work in the fields, passing hours and hours tiling the fields under hot sun. Each autumn, he’d harvest from sunrise to sunset to collect the crops before the winter’s frost set in. 

And, when her father was caught with the crystals that had once belonged to her mother, Ada covered Hilda’s eyes while the men dragged their father away. 

She sent Hilda to live with their Aunt. Ada pulled her hair into a sensible braid, packed her bag, steeled her face, and set off on the road to Camelot. The castle could always use a chambermaid.

Sometimes, she imagines the dark walls of the castle swallowing her whole. There’s a certain darkness here that lingers. It lingers around corners and nooks. It gathers around the sweeping buttresses and lines the stained-glass windows. It veils crackling fires. Sometimes, Ada wonders if it will swallow her too. She’s cold here, more often than not. Not like she ever used to be at home. Back at home, there was warmth in the hearths and the darkness would vanish if she lit a candle. 

Ada tries not to think about it. She strips beds. She mops floors and sweeps fireplaces. She chats with the other chambermaids—many of them have a surprising amount in common. She tries not to think of Hilda. She saves her wages and sends as much as she can back to her aunt. 

And, before she knows it, two years are gone. And still the darkness lingers. And still Ada goes about her day. And still she tries not to think about _it._

She swallows the lump in her throat and dresses for work. Like she does every day. She makes her bed in the servants’ quarters and tucks her nightgown into the trunk. She braids her hair and helps Margery with the laces on the back of her apron. She fills the bucket with water and soap and heaves it up to the room on the fourth floor—the guest room where the visiting Count will be staying. 

The room is supposed to be empty. She pushes the door open without thinking, ready to dust and mop and get the fireplace ready to use. 

But the room is very much not empty. 

Sitting on the side of the bed in front of her are Merlin and Prince Arthur, their faces only inches away from each other. The Prince’s hand rests on Merlin’s wrist.

“Ada!” Merlin pulls away. His blue eyes grow wide and his cheeks colour. “Arthur and I were just talking.”

“Right.” Ada feels her face warm from her forehead to her cheeks down into her neck. “I apologize, Your Majesty.” She tries to turn, but the mop bucket is too heavy. Water sloshes across the stone of the floor and soaks the end of her skirt. She slams the door closed behind her and makes with intent down the hallway, even though she doesn’t know where that intent will take here. Blood hammers in her ears. Her heart beats against her ribs. 

_Oh, Lord._ She whispers a silent prayer that she won’t be dismissed for this, but she knows how things go. Servants have been dismissed for much less, especially where any royalty was involved. Where would she go? How would she send money home?

“Ada! Wait!” 

Ada stops and hesitates. She turns to see Merlin jogging down the corridor, catching up to her side. His hair sticks out wildly around his ears. 

“It’s alright,” he says to her, slightly out of breath. 

Ada can almost believe it. Merlin’s been here since she started at her post—from what she’s heard, he’s been here almost four years now. He’s always been friendly; he helped her find the court physician’s room when she needed a tincture for headaches. 

But as much as she might trust Merlin, she can’t say that her trust extends to the prince. 

“Arthur and I were just talking,” he says again. “We just needed somewhere where we wouldn’t be overheard.”

Ada nods but doesn’t meet his eyes. It _did_ look like they had been discussing something important. The moment she'd opened the door, before he could react, the prince's face _was_ narrowed in concentration. And Ada knows there's nearly nowhere private in the castle walls; eavesdropping is as much of a problem as the rats. 

“Arthur is a good man, I hope you know.” Merlin bites his lip. “He’s not—he’s not like his father.” His voice is so low it’s nearly a whisper. 

And yet. And yet the darkness still lingers. And yet Ada still feels that hollowness that runs deep inside, so deep that it makes her feel as if she is without a core, as if she could be hollow all the way down. 

“I believe in him,” Merlin says. “And I hope one day you can too.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These scenes take place early season 4!  
> Also, I forgot to tag this as AU, purely because I consider canon an AU of the universe the fans have created.

iv.

Theo thinks that working in the stables is probably the best job ever. It’s only him and the horses. Okay--there is the odd other stable hand he crosses paths with, or a knight he has to attend to while they prepare for a ride. But for the most part, it's just him and the horses. He wouldn't have it any other way. 

Once, he tried to work as a porter. By the end of the week, he was sure his arms would fall off from the weight that’d he’d been hauling around and the dense smoke from the fireplaces surely had worked its way into his lungs and stuck there. He’d gone to Balcwin and begged for his old job back. Well, it was more that he _told_ Balcwin he’d be working in the stables once again, or he wouldn’t be working at the castle at all. 

In the stables, there is always fresh air; the scent could be...interesting, but it isn’t bitter with cloying perfumes and heavy with smoke. The horses, too, are gentle. Even the ones who are harder to tame are nothing in comparison to the Lords and Ladies of Camelot. 

Besides, being a stable hand is fairly easy when he catches breaks more often than anyone else in the whole castle. In truth, Theo doesn’t know why Prince Arthur--or technically Prince Regent Arthur now--would send Merlin down to muck out the stable. It certainly isn’t his job. Theo would never even know if Merlin had been told to come; Merlin could’ve simply just not shown up, but he always did anyway. 

It doesn’t really make sense, no matter what way Theo looks at it. Why would the prince regent want his manservant smelling like hay and dung while he helped get him dressed? It’s truly a head-scratching situation. 

But, as Theo has come to learn over the few years he’s worked there, Camelot is full of head-scratching situations. 

More than once, Theo wondered how they’d all survived. His older sister, Margery, simply waved him off. “It’s best if you don’t question it,” she said. 

And so he didn’t. 

Things were easier this way. 

* * *

Margery’s adage “it’s best if you don’t question it” applies to everything in Camelot. Particularly, it applies to the prince regent and Merlin. 

The thing is that Merlin is actually nice enough. He’s friendly with the rest of the servants in the castle, he remembers things like birthdays and people’s names and what’s going on in their lives. He is strange, yes. He disappears at odd times. There are times when he’d be running around, clearly up to _something_ and then act like nothing was wrong a few hours later. But Merlin is also warm and kind and fiercely loyal. 

Many times, Theo had seen a fire in the man--a determined resolve that burned in his heart. It nearly scared him, how serious Merlin could be when it came down to it. But he’d only seen it once, when he was defending Prince Arthur.

And that brought Theo to the heart of this issue. Merlin and Prince Arthur. He’s heard some of the words the two threw at each other. He’s seen them pulled into bitter quarrels. And yet, above it all, they’re as thick as thieves. 

The first month that Theo worked in the stables, back when he was still learning the lay of the land and the castle, a servant came by and told him that the prince wished to go for a ride. So Theo went ahead and did what he’d been shown. He groomed Bayard and fixed the saddle and readied the horse for a ride. 

And, when Prince Arthur came around, the first thing he did was ask: “Where is Merlin’s horse?”

They went together always; they rarely stayed apart. Theo’s seen the glances they shoot each other. How they often brush shoulders up against each and lean in, deep in speech. How when they both thought the other wasn’t looking, they would stare. 

A few days ago, when Prince Arthur, Merlin, and a few of the other knights left to follow some information on Lady Morgana, it had been no different. Merlin tucked a wayward strand of the prince’s hair behind his ear. Prince Arthur’s hand lingered too long when Merlin handed him a bag. Theo did what any good servant would do--he pretended not to notice. 

He hadn’t thought that a thing would be different when they came back. 

But Theo wasn’t too proud to admit that he was wrong--and is he ever wrong. 

* * *

The Knights trudge in only two days after they departed. They were supposed to be gone the full week, at the very least. From what Theo heard, they were tracking down a lead about Lady Morgana’s whereabouts. 

But the knights don’t look victorious—no—they’re scrapped and roughened and dirty and exhausted. Thankfully, the horses are all still there. 

But one is without a rider; the saddle is empty. Sir Gwaine leads the grey horse, Thunderstorm, along with his own. 

_No._ Theo’s heart tightens. Did they lose a member of their party?

But as the group makes their way across the courtyard, Theo realizes what’s different. They aren’t down a member; Prince Arthur’s stead has two riders. Slumped against the prince’s back is a familiar figure—one with messy dark hair. Merlin. 

Merlin who is completely limp. Even though the rest of the knights look like they’ve been through an ordeal, Merlin looks worse of all. Partially, he seems as if he rolled through a mud puddle. But underneath the grime, Theo makes out faint scratches and marks on his pale skin. 

And, above it all, Prince Arthur looks _furious._ His gaze narrows to a point. Deep lines crease his forehead. A muscle in his neck flexes against his skin. 

“Your Highness!” Theo leaps forward, ready to help the ragged party. “What—“

“Don’t ask,” Sir Gwaine mutters and raises his hands. “You don’t want to know.”

Theo nods slowly. What _happened?_ What could’ve left them like this? 

Prince Arthur dismounts his horse; Sir Percival helps the limp Merlin down in his arms. 

And no one moves. 

Expect for the prince, that is. He storms ahead, toward the castle, his face still contorted in anger. The other knights stare at each other, communicating with glances and raises of their eyebrows, and shrugs of their shoulders that Theo doesn’t understand. He is, after all, only here for the horses. 

When the prince is a good deal past the stable, he seems to realize that he’s not flanked by his knights. Prince Arthur spins around on his heel and glares back at the crowd of them. “Well?” he fumes. “What are you lot waiting for! Get _him_ to Gaius.” 

And, with that, he turns and marches inside, the door banging behind him. 

The knights don’t speak. They walk, close together, with Sir Percival at the front as they make their way toward the castle. 

And Theo takes the horses and doesn't question a thing. He keeps Margery’s adage in his head: _don’t ask questions._ It’s not his place anyway, he’s just a stable hand. 

But, gods above, does Theo want to know what went down. 

* * *

v.

Something changed between Merlin and Prince Regent Arthur. 

Anyone with eyes can see it. 

Even Margery, who can scarcely see more than a few feet in front of her before her vision blurs, can see that something between the two had clearly changed. 

Theo told her all about that day--the day when the party returned from the hunt for Lady Morgana in a state of disaster. 

After that, Merlin was out of commission for nearly a week. Margery didn’t see nor hear Merlin in the kitchens and after teasing out what information she could from Ada, she found out that Merlin had been laid up in Gaius’ surgery with something awful of a wound to his arm and side. 

At least that explained why George had been down in the kitchens so frequently--he must’ve been filling in. 

And, even though Margery swore she wouldn’t judge anyone for things they could not help, by the _gods_ did Geroge’s voice annoy her. Somehow his voice is dull and grating, all at once. 

Margery focused on her work. She chopped carrots and diced onions and kneaded dough and waited till the day that George’s voice wouldn’t be in the kitchen again. 

Except that day never came. 

It’s been nearly a month since that patrol, and George is still invading the kitchen every day, announcing to the staff he’s there to take Prince Regent Arthur his meals. 

And, more often than not, he’s back not a quarter-hour later. 

Like today. 

“It is not to the Prince Regent’s liking,” George says. “He prefers duck over pheasant.”

Margery crosses her arms and lets out an annoyed huff. “This is the first I’m hearing of this.” 

“The Prince Regent’s old servant was not as attentive to his needs as I am.”

Margery grinds her back molars together. _How dare he?_ Even though Margery is stuck in the kitchens most of her life, she knows how morose Prince Arthur’s been this past month. It’s been as if a din fell over all of Camelot. There’s not as much laughter in the halls. The knights don’t smile as much. And, the other night, while her and Ada were stealing away a private moment, Ada opened up about Merlin, too. 

He’d been shuffled around, apparently. He was no longer working as manservant to the Prince--he was now just another part of the castle staff. 

It’s a shame, all around. Something grim must’ve happened on patrol. Off all the manservants and ladies maids that come round to the kitchen, Merlin is Margery’s favourite. He always had a joke or a smile, at the very least. 

And George? 

Margery sighs. “Go talk to Sabina. She’ll get you a new plate.”

George nods--at least Margery is pretty sure that he does--and takes off without another word. Which is just another thing that drives Margery up the wall. How hard is it to say when he’s leaving?

With a scowl, Margery turns back to her station. Here, she knows where everything is, she never feels lost. It’s safe, at least. Even if George’s voice _is_ filtering above the usual noise of stirring pots, and chopping knives, and whistling kettles. 

Margery brings down her knife on a stalk of celery. And again. And again. Better on this than on George. 

* * *

A part of Margery hoped that whatever went down between Merlin and Prince Arthur would blow over. 

But it never did. 

Three months on, and the two still aren’t talking, as far as she can tell. As the autumn melts into winter, the castle seems darker and darker by each passing day. It’s all they can do to try and keep the fires lit to stave off the cold. 

On the rare sunny day when both she and Ada have time off together, they go for walks in the forest outside of the city. 

Today is such a day. Margery slips her hand into the nook of Ada’s arm. The wind that day is cool, but not bitterly cold, and at least the heat of the sun warms Margery’s face. It helps, of course, that the two of them are bundled in layers of skirts and legging and jackets and scarves and mittens. 

In front of her, Margery’s breath hangs in the air, a little cloud that pays testament to the season. 

“Oh! Maggie,” Ada says as they pass a frozen stream, “I forgot to tell you, I heard some rumours today.”

“Oh?” Gossip is a favourite pastime of the servants. Margery and Ada are no exception. 

Ada nods. “Apparently Prince Arthur wants to throw a grand Yuletide feast this year. They’re talking about inviting nobles from all over the kingdom.”

Margery groans.

“What? I think the castle could use some joy.”

“You’re right about that--I just hate thinking about how much work that’s going to be. I’m going to smell like onions for _weeks_.”

Ada giggles. “I might just have to break up with you then.”

“Mhmm. Well, it’ll probably be mutual, because I don’t want to listen to you hack up the dust in your lungs that came from all those empty rooms you cleaned for people who are going to leave the castle in a worse state than it started.”

Ada groans this time. “I didn’t even think about that. We’re not gonna have any time together.”  
“I guess we should stick together then. No time for finding new romance.”

Ada shrugs. “I already bought you a gift, too. No point in it going to waste.”

* * *

As predicted, the week leading up to the Yule feast is a nightmare. Ada’s gone from dawn to dusk, scrubbing every inch of stone in the castle. 

And Margery does smell like onions. And garlic. And spices and smoke from the fires. Her feet ache up into her ankles from standing too long; she’s got a blister on her hand from where she guided her knife. 

But at least the time passes quickly. The snow outside is thick and deep and the world goes quiet outside the castle. At night, Margery sits by the window and watches flakes pile up on the other side of the pane. A draft blows in and she wraps herself tightly in her shawl. 

Ada comes up beside her a few moments later and squeezes her hands. “It's beautiful,” she says. “The frost is clinging to the tree branches. We’ll go for a walk as soon as we can, okay?”

Magery squeezes her hand back. “Okay.”

“Now come on--the guests are arriving tomorrow. We’re all going to be exhausted.” 

Margery lets Ada haul her up to her feet, dreading the long days they have ahead of them.

* * *

The nobles arrive on time, despite the snow. And, as busy as they’d been the past week, they’re even busier now. There are more mouths to feed--both Lords and Ladies and servants alike--and the food they’re making is their absolute best. Camelot needs to show her strength. The kitchen brims with the savoury smell of stew and roasting beef and frying onions. 

But as busy as she is, there’s one bright spot, too--Merlin is back. 

“Lord Tybalt’s manservant got left back at his home estate--lad has a nasty bout of flu, apparently,” Merlin explains as he loads up a tray with food. Margery notices he tucks a bread roll into the pocket of his own jacket, for good measure. 

_Good,_ she thinks. _He’s too thin._ He’s always been lanky, but his sharp cheekbones seem even more pronounced than they were a few months ago. 

“So I’m the lucky bastard who gets to serve him.”

Margery winces in sympathy and nods. From what she’s gleaned, Lord Tybalt is an utter arse. Well, even more of an arse than the usual levels of the nobles. 

“Just a few days,” she reassures Merlin, “and they’ll all be on their way.”

“It can’t come soon enough.”

* * *

The night after the grand Yuletide feast, Margery gets stuck on dishwashing duty. 

And _yes_ she knows the names she called George were far from friendly. And _yes_ the head cook and Steward gave her a chance to apologize. 

But Margery stuck with her statement. George was trying to tell her how to do her job, after all. The bastard deserved every word she levelled at him. 

But now, hours after the feast, she wonders if it was the right choice. Not that she regrets it. It’s just that scrubbing pot after pot after pot gets old quite quickly.

It’s past midnight when she makes her way back up to the servant’s quarters. In the distance, music and laughter still drift down the corridors from the grand hall where the feast has moved into the night. Liquor must flow freely, too, if the roars of laughter and loud voices are any measures of the party. 

But as Margery rounds a corner on the third floor, she hears another sort of loud voice. One that has no kindness in it, no warmth. A cool chill runs through her bones; she freezes in place, on hand on her skirt, one hand on the stone of the wall. 

“You _arrogant_ boy,” a deep voice sneers. “Such insolence will not be tolerated.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect, My Lord.” 

Margery’s heart plummets into her stomach at that. She knows that warm voice--that’s Merlin. 

“Arthur often asked for my advice. That’s all.”

“ _Arthur?_ You mean Prince Regent Arthur?” Lord Tybalt’s voice is pure vitriol.

“Um, yes. Sorry, My Lord.” Merlin pauses. “I just think that--”

He doesn’t finish his thought; a resounding and sickening sound rings through the corridor. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. 

Margery’s stomach tightens and twists. _Never_ in her years at Camelot had such a thing happened. She’d heard rumours, of course, coming from some of the kitchen maids who’d worked for other estates. But such a thing was not permitted here. 

Margery is so wrapped up in her own thoughts and worries, the figure down the hallway takes her by surprise. Whoever they are, they’re a thick blur, too far away for her to see especially in low light. 

She’s not taking chances. Margery swoops into a curtsey. She doesn’t dare raise her head. 

All she hears is a low chuckle. “I wasn’t aware I’d been promoted.” 

“Merlin!” she whispers. The knot in her core eases, ever so slightly. “Are you okay?” 

As he moves closer, she can start to make out his face more clearly in the stray moonlight filtering in through the window. His left cheek is bright red. A bruise will undoubtedly be there tomorrow on top of his cheekbone. And, worst of all, two deep gashes mar the flesh of his cheek.

Gingerly, he reaches up and skims his fingers over the wound. “It’s nothing,” he says. “Goodnight.”

And, with that, Merlin pushes past her and disappears down the corridor. 

Margery knows she should let it go. She really should. As she’d told her little brother, it’s best to not get involved with things in the castle that aren’t one’s business. 

But something in her mind nudges her that this _is_ her business. She’d heard the whole thing. 

And it’s even deeper than that. 

When Margery was eight winters, she’d come down with a fever. At first, it had been a light thing, something she barely noticed. But over the course of the week, it progressed. It kept her confined to her bed. She’d sweated through sheets. She’d thrown up the broth her mother tried to feed her. She’d dreamt terrible, melted dreams. 

And, when the haze of illness cleared, her vision was not what it had been before. She was lucky to have anything, she knows. She’d heard stories of how these fevers robbed babes of their sight completely. 

More than anything, Margery knows how the smallest injury could have long and dangerous effects. Especially if it was left untreated. 

Ada is most certainly up in the chambers, waiting for her. 

But Margery turns around and winds her way back down the staircase, back toward the hall with laughs and the echoes of a lute and the constant hum of chatter. 

A man points her in the direction of Gaius, who is huddled against the wall, talking to someone who Margery can’t make out yet. 

But as she draws closer, she realizes the blur that Gaius is talking to has a crown on his head. There are many conversations that Margery wouldn’t hesitate to interrupt, but this is not one of them. Instead, she lingers a few feet away. 

Prince Arthur takes a sip from his goblet. “I think someone is waiting to speak to you, Gaius. I should let you go.”

As Gaius turns, Margery lowers herself into a curtsey. “I did not mean to interrupt,” she says, “I wouldn’t have done so if it wasn’t important.”  
Gaius raises an eyebrow at her. “What is it, girl?”

“It’s Merlin.”

The prince stops in his tracks. “What?” His face washes white. 

Margery hesitates. She hadn’t expected the prince to listen to this. She has to watch her words, lest she level accusations at some visiting Lord. 

“Um, he’s alright--really,” she starts with, trying to placate them both, “it’s just a minor wound, but I believe it might need some medical attention.” _And Merlin certainly isn’t about to seek it out on his own._

“What is it, dear girl?”

“It’s, uh, scratches. On his face.”

“Whatever from?”

Again, Margery hesitates. An accusation against a Lord is serious business. 

“Speak plainly, please,” Prince Arthur says, his voice sounding genuine and wrought with concern. 

Margery swallows the lump in her throat. “I didn’t see what happened, Your Highness, but I believe, uh, I believe Lord Tybalt struck him. From what I heard.” Margery wrings her fingers together. “And, well, he always wears those heavy rings…”

Before she can finish her sentence, the prince shoves his goblet on a nearby table. The base tips with momentum and dark wine spills across the table. 

He doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s sprinting through the hall. Heads turn. He keeps moving. ‘

And the grand doors fly open with a creak and shut with a bang. 

* * *

The next day, Lord Tybalt leaves at dawn.


End file.
